


Happy Birthday

by Communist Barbie (Lesbian_Propaganda)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Also I adamantly spell it ‘Romanoff’ so sorry in advance, Birthdays, F/M, Fluff, I play fast and loose with canon, I wrote this instead of studying can you feel my stress resonate through the words, Natasha Romanov is (probably) not a robot, Natasha and Tony are good bros, Natasha owns a motorbike, No Endgame Spoilers, Nobody Dies, Note: I’m British so sorry if British-isms seep in, One Shot, Or at least nobody is dead yet, Swearing, Swearing in Russian too because who doesn’t know how to cuss in Russian, These two are the best Avengers change my mind, This was meant to be platonic but take it however you want I’m not a cop, Tony Stark (probably) has a heart, fight me, the best bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 20:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18746485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesbian_Propaganda/pseuds/Communist%20Barbie
Summary: Tony Stark is a good bro.





	Happy Birthday

Natasha Romanoff _worries_ too much.

As if she seriously thinks Tony can’t ride a motorbike. _Tony Stark._ Tech genius, playboy, and all-round badass, not able to ride a motorbike? It’s so ridiculous, it’s almost laughable. He laughs. Laughs at her. Her ridiculous, foolish, _wrong_  belief that he, Tony Stark, cannot ride a motorbike without-

“You crashed it, didn’t you?”

Shit, she looks _pissed._

Natasha’s stood staring him down as if he’s a target. Which, realistically, he might as well be. She’s always seemed so proud of that bike, her one prized possession. Just ask anyone what her favourite _thing_  was, and they’d probably say the bike. It’s practically proof that she’s a robot, with the bike being her mechanical lover. Or, well, it _was._  Past tense. Right now, it just looks kind of... crumpled, and lonely, and sad.

“Actually, I didn’t crash it, it-“

“You crashed my _fucking_ bike.” Natasha groans, looking away and massaging her temples with her fingertips. Tony begins to plan his escape route. He knows her well enough to know that if she’s mad, he should probably run. “You see why I wouldn’t give you the keys now?”

“Like I said, _I_ didn’t crash it, it just-“

“Shut up.” Tony wonders how quickly he could suit up. It may be a wise idea. “Do you have _any_ idea how many months’ salary that goddamn bike’s worth?”

“Look, I can probably fix it.” Tony insists. “Or better, I can build you a new one. Bright red.” She _growls._  “Or black, black works too. Whatever that old piece of junk was worth, I guarantee I can make something worth ten times more.”

Natasha doesn’t look even _remotely_  impressed. “Not a chance. Knowing you, you’ll spray paint ‘Communist Barbie’ on the sides, or have a built-in music player that _only_ plays AC/DC at full blast, or...”

“Wow, you have that little faith in me?” Tony grins at her, but her glare doesn’t soften even a little. “Okay, seriously. I’ll make it up to you. Cross my heart, soul, all that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. When’s your birthday? I’ll pick you out something real nice, or - actually, Happy’s probably more suited for that, nobody ever likes what _I_  pick out-“

Natasha snorts. “If you’re implying that you’re going to make it up to me with _clothes_ , then you’re _asking_  for me to break your arm.”

“Oh, no, not clothes, just... Wait and see. You’re gonna love it. C’mon, when even is your birthday?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t try and change the subject.”

“Oh, no, wouldn’t dream of it. I just wanna know your star sign... What are you, virgo? Libra? Sagittarius?”

Gritting her teeth, Natasha folds her arms. “I don’t _know._ ”

“Not an astrology person? That’s fine, neither am I, think it’s horseshit-“

“Not my star sign. My birthday.” She says, rather nonchalantly.

“What? You’re kidding. Everybody knows their birthday.”

“Well, when you spend your childhood training as a Russian spy...”

He winces. Maybe he’s being just a _little_  tactless, here. “Fair point, but even still... Couldn’t Fury just, y’know, _ask_  those Russian bastards when it is... Y’know, for your identity’s sake?”

“I doubt that when you abduct children, the first thing you’re interested in is their birthdays.” Natasha finally sits down on the sofa, so Tony decides to quickly follow suit, in the hopes of pacifying her.

“So, then... When do you celebrate?”

“I don’t _celebrate._  Parties are for children.”

“Clearly you’ve never been to one of _my_ parties.”

“Not sober I haven’t.”

“Who said anything about being sober?”

“Whatever.” She sighs. “I know you’re just trying to avoid getting your arm broken.”

“Absolutely not!” Tony insists, warranting another glare from her. “Okay, maybe a _little,_  but... You seriously don’t celebrate your birthday?”

“Nope. Never have, never will.”

“Then... God, how old even are you?”

She shrugs. “Twenty-something, maybe? Could be in my thirties. Hard to tell.”

“What’s on your driver’s licence, then?”

“Come on, this isn’t important.” Natasha bites her lip. “I’m going home. And since _you_ wrecked my bike...” She stands up, forcefully, and he can practically feel pain already. “You are paying for my taxi.”

“Hey, hey, _I_ wasn’t the one who-“

“Don’t wanna hear it, Stark.”

——————————————

“More shots?”

“More shots.”

Rhodey _cheers._  Loudly. His alcohol tolerance is embarrassingly low. Hell, Tony’s embarrassed for him. Not that he hasn’t already recorded a couple videos that may or may not end up all over the internet by the end of the night. He isn’t the only drunk one, though, not by any means - Bruce is dangerously close to passing out, Natasha looks like she isn’t far behind, and Sam’s been staring at the bartender’s ass for about 20 minutes now, looking as if he’s gonna make a move if nobody stops him. Hell, even Tony’s a little tipsy, even if he has the tolerance of a 60-year-old alcoholic. The only one there who seems completely fine is Steve - no surprise there, since if what he’s heard is true, he physically _can’t_  get drunk. He’s absolutely planning to test that, though. He’s almost positive that no amount of vague science bullshit can beat enough vodka to kill a small dog.

The bartender heads back with their drinks - and receives a _concerning_ amount of praise from Sam for it - as Tony passes everyone their shots. Steve gives him a reserved nod of thanks, Bruce groans, Rhodey grins, Sam downs it before Tony can even blink and Natasha mumbles something that could either be ‘thank you’ or ‘fuck you’. (Knowing her, it’s the latter.)

“C’mon, you can’t pass out on me, Romanoff. I need you to teach me more Russian curses so I can find an appropriate name for Steve in my contacts.”

“How are you not dying? You have a drinking problem.” She slurs.

“It’s only a problem if you’re not good at it.”

“Moron.” Natasha snorts, and they raise their shot glasses together, devouring the shots in sync. She splutters, wrinkling her nose. “Christ, what is that? Whatever it is, it’s _foul._ ”

“It’s _expensive,_  that’s what it is.” Tony scoffs. “And I’ll tell you what, I’m getting damn tired of being the only one here buying the rounds.”

“You’re a billionaire.” Sam shouts over to him, as if to remind him.

“I won’t be for much longer at this rate.”

“Shut up, asshole.” Natasha huffs loudly. “I’ll buy the next round, if it’ll shut you up for a few minutes.”

“Atta girl, Nat!” Rhodey cheers again.

“A _generous_ commie, that’s what you are.” Tony laughs.

“Hey.” Steve turns to glare at Tony, and it’s Natasha’s turn to laugh.

“Calm it, it’s fine.” She fumbles around for her bag. “Hold up, it’s... Here.” She draws out a wad of cash - _definitely_ not bad for a commie, Tony wants to say. She shoves the money into his hands, standing up unsteadily. “Merry Christmas.”

“Woah there, Rudolph, December’s months away.”

“Well, then, happy fuckin’ birthday. I’m going to the bathroom.” And with that, she stumbles away, no doubt to throw up.

“For a philanthropist, you’re a damn cheapskate, Tony.” Rhodey jokes.

“You guys are _way_  out of my range of... philanthropising. Philanthropy?” Maybe he’s a little drunker than he thought, but whatever. He hands the bartender the cash, ordering the same again, and notices Natasha’s left her bag on her chair.

Now, Tony tries not to make a _habit_  of rifling through his colleagues’ things, but something Natasha said’s made him think about their conversation a few weeks ago. He looks around - Steve and Sam are deep in conversation, Rhodey’s trying to flirt, and Bruce definitely doesn’t look like he’s going to be a problem. To hell with it. He discreetly slides her bag onto his lap, rifling through it until - there it is. He slides her driver’s licence out, peeking at it _just_ long enough to copy the date onto his phone’s calendar. _Right._ Hearing the sound of heels heading back from the ladies’ room, he quickly shoves the licence back in her bag, dumping it on her stool.

“I’m starting to think you only invited us here to poison us, Stark.” Natasha says, sitting back down next to him. “You planning on wiping out the other Avengers, too?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’d much rather be the only one. Don’t work well with others, remember?” Tony jokes, pulling his phone out. “Will you excuse me for just a second? There’s a call I gotta make.” She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, and he quickly slips outside, phone in his hand, and plans already beginning to formulate. Flicking through his contacts, he decides to set this thing into motion.

“Hey, Clint? You free anytime in June?”

——————————————

“I’m telling you, she’s not gonna like it.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I heard you the first million times. Get back to your balloons.”

A few weeks have passed since Tony began planning, and things are finally beginning to come together. He’s found the whole thing *far* more enjoyable than he thought he would, and he was already excited at the idea - turns out party planning for probably the most cold-hearted woman he knows is _hilarious._ Settling on a tone was hard, and he will admit, the childish decorations (think ‘It’s a Girl!’ banners, mixed with streamers and at least a few hundred helium balloons) seem strange in contrast to the ungodly amount of alcohol he’s also bought. A sizeable dent in his bank balance is nothing when the money’s going towards the _perfect_  event.

Because it is going to be perfect. He doesn’t care how many times Clint insists that ‘she doesn’t like surprises’ and ‘she’ll think it’s immature’ and ‘why don’t you plan like this for somebody who _wants_ a party?’ After _days_  of his whining, Tony considers the option that maybe he should uninvite him.

“I’m just saying.” Clint continues. “Paying for a babysitter when I _know_ this won’t go well is painful. We’re not all trust fund kids. Not to mention how much a taxi’s gonna cost getting back home.”

“I’m sure you can make the sacrifices to celebrate your best friend’s birthday.” Tony says, turning to shout a few orders to the staff he’s hired from his sofa. “After all, you’re not the one paying for all of this. Trust me, you’re doing fine.”

“Yeah, sure.” Clint scoffs. “And another thing - why do I have to blow up balloons whilst you sit on your ass doing nothing?”

“Because,” Tony grins, “You might not be a trust fund kid, but I am, and therefore I don’t have to do anything.” He can almost imagine Clint’s ribs cracking as he gives the sigh to end all sighs.

“On the bright side,” Clint says, “At least when Natasha sees all of this, she’s gonna murder you in cold blood.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“If she hates it, I’ll just tell her this was your idea.”

Tony leans back further into the sofa, proud of himself already. If he dies today, at least he dies for a noble cause.

About three hours later, everything’s set up, and all the guests (barring Nat, obviously) are present. The guest list was the thing giving Tony the biggest problem - he figured she wouldn’t appreciate a huge, lavish affair, full of strangers, and he can’t imagine her having many friends outside of work. He eventually settled on just the Avengers - after all, the earth’s mightiest heroes are probably the best people to have surrounding him if this really does backfire like Clint seems sure it will. After a little bit (or a _lot_  in some cases) of arguing, he finally managed to get across that this was a strictly formal event, and everybody would dress as such or _else._  Seeing Steve in a suit next to the hammer and sickle flag Tony insisted they needed makes his life complete, regardless of how much it’s in poor taste.

“Okay, she’s pulling into the driveway now.” Clint shouts from the window. She’s under the impression that she’s been invited to a regular Stark event, a fundraiser, lured in with the promise of free booze and travel payed for by the man himself since her motorbike is still just a _little_ worse for wear. She steps out of the cab, looking less than comfortable in a dress, and makes her way to the entrance.

“Okay. You guys all... stand here, and try to be _quiet_ until she’s upstairs. Got it?” Tony gets a nod from everybody, and quickly heads down in the elevator, opening the door for her.

“You greet all your guests in person now?” Natasha raises an eyebrow when she sees him, her arms folding.

“Budget cuts.” Tony smirks. “You wouldn’t believe the number of staff I’ve had to fire, almost had to cancel this entire thing.”

“I wouldn’t have been so disappointed.” Natasha shrugged, stepping inside. “These goddamn heels are a nightmare.”

“Too bad you’re so short.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re, what, like, 5’7”?”

“5’9”!”

“Same thing.” Natasha scoffs, heading into the elevator.

“I refuse to be attacked like this in my own building. Apologise or get out.” Tony stands in the way of the elevator door, preventing it from closing.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Natasha grabs Tony by his jacket, pulling him inside and pressing the button to close the doors before he can protest. “It’s not my fault Steve’s four inches taller than you.”

Tony snorts. “Yeah, well I make up for that somewhere el-“

Natasha swiftly punches him in the arm. “Finish that sentence, and I’ll tear out your lungs and feed them to your guests.”

“Ow!” Tony complains, holding his arm in mock hurt as the elevator begins to come to a stop. “You’re almost making me regret all of this.”

“All of what?” Natasha asks. And as if on cue, the doors open, leaving her face-to-face with a handful of friends - including a literal god, because apparently birthday parties are a novel concept to anyone of Asgardian decent - and coworkers, a scattering of (some mildly inappropriate) banners, several cakes (since _what does she even like?_ ), and all the alcohol anyone could possibly hope to drink. Tony just laughs, turning to see her reaction, and - oh, Jesus Christ, she’s gone pale. He realises he’s never seen her surprised before, and he _also_ realises that maybe that’s not a good thing.

At least he got to make a dick joke before he died.

“... Tony.” Natasha says, her tone icy cold. “A word.” Without giving him a chance to run, she grabs him by the arm, pulling him into a side room and slamming the door behind them.

“Give all of my money to... No, screw charity. Bury me with it.”

“ _Tony._ ” Natasha repeats, and he looks at her, expecting a glare. What he sees, however, is something... else. That might even be a _smile._  Either way, she is _blushing,_  and her eyes dart away from him. “Did you... Is this... Are _you_  responsible for this?”

“It was Clint’s idea.” Tony blurts out instinctively.

“No, it wasn’t. He wouldn’t do... _This._ ” She raises a hand to her forehead, taking a deep breath, and - holy _shit,_ she _is_ smiling. “You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”

“Well, I do try my best-“ He cuts off, startled, because - and he swears to himself that he will _never_ forget this - she _hugs_ him. Natasha motherfucking Romanoff. He’s not sure whether to laugh, cry, or run.

“Thank you.” She mumbles, her voice muffled a little by his jacket.

“No problem, Nat.”

She sighs. “Right.” Pulling away, she looks up, taking a moment, before looking back over at him. “Right, okay, now I have to hit you.”

“What?!” Tony practically squeals. “Why?!”

“I’m not having you butcher my reputation. God knows even showing up to this thing’ll be bad enough.”

“You love it, really.”

His train of thought’s cut off by another punch. “Tell that to your bruise.” She heads back to the door, sorting out her hair quickly.

“My bruise is pleased it got to see you smile.”

“Tell it it’ll be the last time.”

——————————————

“This is good.”

Natasha’s voice is made almost unintelligible by a mouthful of cake - red velvet, he should’ve figured. She gestures to it with her fork, making a thumbs-up sign with her free hand.

“I’ll compliment the chef.”

“Compliment _yourself._ ” Natasha smiles, placing the plate down. “You know you’re insane, right? You’re the only person I know who doesn’t fear me.”

“Oh, I fear you. I just have the self-destructive tendencies of-“

“Save it.” She pulls her knees to her chest, slipping them inside of the shirt she’s now wearing.

“Woah, woah, careful, Princess. That’s my favourite t-shirt.”

“Your fault for not telling me to bring a change of clothes.” Natasha shrugs. “Hell, I’d be home by now if it wasn’t for me not having a functional bike.”

“Oh, yeah.” Tony sits up suddenly. “About that...”

Natasha jumps to her feet. “Tony Stark, if you’re about to tell me you bought me a brand new motorbike, I’m either about to kiss you, snap your neck, or both.”

“Well, not _exactly._  Here.” Tony gets up, heading over to one of his many workbenches. He pulls the tarp away - rather showily, of course - to reveal one of his simplest and yet favourite creations: a black, sleek, effortlessly stylish motorcycle, design inspired by her. “I figured I owed you one.”

“... Jesus _Christ,_  Stark, since when were you this charitable?” Natasha tries to laugh it off, but her eyes are shining, clearly in adoration of the bike.

“It was fun.” Tony laughs. “Besides, I’m just avoiding a lawsuit, here. It’s more a service to my legal team.”

“Sure.” Natasha says, beginning to circle it. “You really made this thing?”

“I’m a genius. This was more than easy.” Tony shrugs, gloating.

“...” Natasha’s eyes narrow suddenly. “Where’s the catch? There’s always a catch.”

“No catch. Just a gift from a friend.”

“I refuse to- Oh, you _motherfucker._ ” Natasha rolls her eyes, noticing the writing on the side of the cycle.

“Don’t you mean ‘ублю́док’?” Tony grins. “You’re to blame for it. I basically didn’t have a choice.”

“I _hate_ you.”

“You don’t.”

“I’m still riding the goddamn thing.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it. How else would anybody know you’re a ‘су́ка’?”

“Any way _other_  than reading it off of the side of my motorbike would’ve been preferable.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a dick.” Tony laughs, heading back over to his sofa, more than proud of himself. “Besides, if you think this is bad, you should see what I’m giving Cap for _his_ birthday.”

“Can’t wait.” Natasha follows him, sitting down in the corner of the settee with her head lying on the arm rest.

“Trust me, you’re gonna love it, sunshine.” He sits down on the opposite side, flicking the television on.

“... Tony.”

“Mmhmm?”

“Look, don’t... Repeat this and I’ll kill you. I...”

“Love me?”

Natasha kicks him softly. “Of course not. Love is for-“

“Children, I know, I guessed.”

“Yeah.” She folds her arms. “But... You’re a good friend.”

“I am.” He grins.

“And an asshole.”

“You’re a good friend too.”

Natasha turns to look at the television. She wrinkles her nose, clearly not approving of the shitty b-list movie currently playing. Tony can’t blame her. “You want me to put something else on?”

“Mm, anything but Snow White.”

“I was thinking more horror, but... Sure. I can do Disney.” He changes the channel, settling for Mulan. “Will this do?”

“Great.” Natasha smiles, sinking further into the sofa until she’s practically lying down. “Wait, how did you even find out when my fake birthday was?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” Tony says cockily, resting his head on his hands.

“... I’m gonna fucking kill you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Mmhmm. For today, we can stay friends.”

Tony smiles. “Good enough for me.”   


End file.
